


vertices, edges, and faces

by Goodknight (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 10:32:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Goodknight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat's the most objectively beautiful person Dave's ever met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	vertices, edges, and faces

Karkat’s jaw is slanted and tilted and bent like a tire iron. His face is the sharp edge of a broken bottle, but it’s smooth under your fingers when you cup his head. His cheeks are like puffed wheat and his blush is the matte red of dried strawberry and you swear you can almost smell how sweet he is. Sometimes you see the State Crown flash in his pupils, the jewelry of a monarch nested in his eyes, flashy gold and large, lusty carmine irises and wet stone. He’s saccharine. You want to kiss him forever, run your hands against the smooth rayon of his jumper dress, hitch his leg around your waist and grab at the wool of his patterned tights, you want to keep him as close as possible.

When he takes your hand, his eyebrows are tilted tight and forceful, his teeth grating against each other, and a small rusty rattle is in his throat. You squeeze the dents in his fingers and brush your thumb over the top of his hand, tilting it up so his wrist folds. He breathes harsh through his nose and you know he’s had enough, so you pull away, and let him yank you back onto the sidewalk.

He tells you he barely puts up with you, barely stands how clingy you are, and you laugh at him. It’s fine, it’s all fine, because you know him so well, and you felt the love on his breath and you feel it when he entwines your fingers, looping his between yours and settling down at your side.

His scowl doesn’t take away from his pulchritude. His wayward hair and the long pointed ears tucked against his head are just so damn pretty.

Man, you think, being Dave Strider is the best.

You notice a coffee shop ahead, right where John said it would be, and Karkat grumbles when the door chimes and you move up to the counter. You’re both used to the Texas heat, you’re both cold, but the biting air and the crinkle and crack of your hair as it freezes are worth the alones time. He shoves you, a little too hard, while you’re examining the menu, and you grab the counter and shuffle around to right yourself. A bit of snow falls onto the ground as you shift. The café is bathed in yellow light. Karkat looks ethereal. He’s ordering a latte.

You hold up two fingers, and the barista nods and turns towards her little coffee making station. You give Karkat a quick smile.

He rolls his eyes before smiling back, showing you his straight sharp teeth when he rolls up a black lip. Jokingly threatening. You have never seen a smile so exquisite in your entire life. You think you might be witnessing the golden rule every time he looks at you.

“Could go walk around the park where the lights are. Take advantage of some of Washington’s tourist attractions; maybe snap some photos on a disposable like true patriots.” You offer, when your coffee’s ready.

Karkat takes his latte into his hands and presses it against his palms like a heater. He’s looking out the window, eyelashes flickering, brows pulled tight. His shoulders are compressed, his body bent around itself, anticipating the cold outside.

You don’t really want to leave either, but the place is bustling and noisy, the tables are full, and you left John’s house to be alone with Karkat. You left because you wanted to kiss him and put your arms against his sides and tuck his head under your chin and smile against his collarbone.

He nods after a moments contemplating, and you push open the door for him, loop your elbow with his, and set off back down the street. Your feet crunch in the snow. You’re both wearing converse, and the fabric is wet. The pavement’s beaten down snow doesn’t imprint with the tracks of your footsteps as you walk away from the heart of downtown side by side.

The park’s main path has a few people bustling down it, none of them unused to the faerie lights in the branches of the aspens, with their heads down against the wind. It’s definitely not a tourist attraction.

Karkat moves closer towards you and you wrap an arm around his waist while he moves his drink into both hands, sighs, and leans his head against the space between your chest and your shoulder. You can see his breath in soft puffs, and feel the echoing cold in your own breathing.

He has his chin tucked into the neck of his knee length knitted sweater, the fabric’s criss-crossing black and grey and tendrils of white, and the pullover’s scratchy against your fingertips, but warm, so you slip your hand into his pocket.

“We should have bought gloves.”

Karkat nods, taking a sip of his latte, and reminds you that you’re the idiot who wanted to visit John for Christmas in the first place, which was obviously a shitty idea, since John lives in the temperature equivalent of the icy bottom country.

Antarctica, you offer.

He growls and huffs, shifting against you so you’re the victim of his sharp elbow. You want to wrap him up in a down comforter and hold his bony corners flat against you and press your cheek against his, eskimo kiss his dainty nose, massage his tense shoulder blades and press your fingers into the base of his spine so he purrs.

“Wanna makeout?” You ask.

“We are in public. I refuse to make any more exceptions for you and your insatiable libido, you paint licking spazmaggot.”

You haw and hum a little, act over the top disappointed, and your eyes flick around the glittering white lights, blinking like mini suns through the glaze of the light snow, soft and fuzzy, and Karkat’s face as it watches you, his feet planted in the newer snow of the park, his feet sunk to the ankles, and his lip tilted, ears twitching, and you know him so you know he wants you to kiss him. You think he’s so bright and glorious, dark hair and dark bruised eyes and tired droop, you kiss him, lightly, and you say. “You’re fucking beautiful.” And you think, god damn it’s great to be Dave Strider and god damn is the rest of the world unlucky, because you don’t think anyone’s ever gotten to tell Karkat he’s beautiful, but he is.


End file.
